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Issue 29 || 2026

‘And if you are interested in teaching, and also in what I am saying, then you will find out the method of teaching… You want me to lay down the principles; I cannot do it. But you will find out for yourself how to work, how to draw the principles out of what I have been saying, if you are interested as teachers. For teachers, it is not a peculiar profession. I do not think it is a specialist profession: it is a human profession; you need not be scientists who are specially drawn. You are human beings, and from that you are to approach it — your teaching and everything else.’

—J. Krishnamurti – Varanasi, 1933


So, if you will this morning apply the art, the art of listening. We rarely listen to anybody. We are so full of our own conclusions, our own experiences, our own problems, our own judgements, so we have no space in which to listen.


What is compassion? Is it emotion, something romantic? Does it expend itself in some kind of social work? One has to find out what compassion is, what love is. Is love desire? Is love pleasure? And can there be love where there is ambition?

The twenty-ninth issue of the Journal of Krishnamurti Schools, as with the previous twenty-eight issues, continues to explore, grapple with and seek clarity around this very human profession of teaching.

All living beings, from plants to unicellular organisms and sea anemones, from butterflies and glow worms to hummingbirds, from alligators to dolphins, from cats, dogs and horses to apes and human beings wish to continue living, and to flourish.

There is a question that is asked of those of us who were educated in Krishnamurti schools. Family members ask it when they notice we do not rush to compete. Employers ask it if they expect urgency or desperation from us.

When I began teaching at Oak Grove nine years ago, I was already a seasoned teacher with fifteen years under my belt, and I thought I had it all figured out. If you had asked me back then why I teach, I would have said that teaching is all about enabling children to find their voice.

Look, Akka!’ said Priya, ‘this leaning tree could be an “A” with the branch and me bending this way.’ ‘Look, Akka, this caterpillar is making a “C”,’ said Sumit. ‘Oh, now it’s making an “I”.’

At Good Earth School in Naduveerapattu, biology classes rarely begin with a diagram; they begin with the land. A class may walk out towards the paddy fields in the early part of the day, when the light is still soft and the soil holds the memory of water.

While most of us engage with the world through our five senses, centuries of living in increasingly urban settings have dimmed our sense perceptions. For forest-dwelling humans, not being fully alive with all their senses could cost them their lives; staying alert is a way of life for them.

In the quiet of a high school physics classroom, a student hovered over the diagram of a projectile, pencil tip wavering just above the paper. In my old life as a quantum scientist, I would have described her as being in a state of cognitive superposition—considering three or four different paths to a solution and as yet uncertain about them all.

‘Look…not with your mind but with your eyes’—Krishnamurti uses this pithy line towards the very end of a talk with Rishi Valley students, during the course of which he makes a rare concession with regard to ‘how to’ and guides them in a step-by-step observation exercise:

Language learning presents opportunities for understanding the world and oneself. Language is the medium through which we gain knowledge and which we use to understand and make sense of the world we live in.

I was reading the picture book, A Day’s Work, by Eve Bunting, which tells the story of an immigrant boy from Mexico and his grandfather  who live in the USA. When the narrative begins, they are waiting by the  side of the road to find some work. As the story unfolds, the child who  can speak English helps his grandfather communicate with would be  employers.

Excerpts from a session at the KFI teachers’ conference 2025  held at The Valley School, Bangalore.

The students sat quietly in the classroom, looking apprehensive yet excited. Their fresh faces eager to learn what lay ahead of them in the next four years at university. I could feel the weight of their expectations of me as I stood before them. It was the first day of what would be a month-long summer programme for a fresh batch of undergraduate students.

Schooling is designed around futures that are collapsing. And yet, if you ask anyone what they think is wrong with the education system, you can easily guess the typical answers. What if I were to tell you that fixing any of those issues will still not prepare the children of today for the present climate-altered reality? This is a challenge that they will feel more acutely in the future. This is because the design and content of formal schooling are largely built on a blueprint that serves the very economic paradigms that have put us in the global mess that we have today.

The boy continued, ‘Because I am a nerd…!’ The teacher looked at him incredulously and said, ‘But you are not. You are fine!’ She was surprised by her own quick and heartfelt response. The child’s nonchalant acceptance of the way he was being addressed by his classmates irked her. What had once been a distressing remark had now lost its sting, and he no longer seemed affected by it. After all, he had been listening to these comments every day.

The role of a teacher in a small school based on Krishnamurti’s teachings is difficult to define. This is not because all the big and small tasks required of the teacher are impossible to list; but more so because many of these tasks are ever emerging as fresh situations present themselves. I would liken this most to living together in a large joint family where one is responsible for everything.

When I began writing reports for my students, I found myself pausing — not because I lacked words, but because I was held back by a question that I could not frame. I was thinking of a seven-year-old child in my class, a child who fidgeted constantly, filed the edge of his scale repeatedly until one end had become triangular in shape, and rarely sat still.

Inclusion in schools is often talked about as a set of rules or practices. In the classroom it feels more like a natural part of the day. It shows up in moments that are easy to miss. I noticed it when a child stopped at the door, looked around the room and another child scooted over to make space for her on the bench without being asked.

Education, as Krishnamurti envisioned, is not a preparation for life but the process of understanding life itself. As educators, we ought to thus ponder over what education truly means. Is our intent merely to endow our students with knowledge and explicit skills? Or is it also about leading them towards being mindful of themselves, becoming aware of their doings and emotions, and how their actions affect themselves, others and the world around them?

There are two rooms in the house where I live. One is closely surrounded, almost on all sides, by the other buildings nearby. The other room has a building only on one side, while one side is more open. Interestingly, the room that is encircled by other buildings gets quite warm, and I often find myself moving into the other room, which remains surprisingly cool even though it catches a lot of sunlight during the day.

Most learning in school fits into neat little boxes — boxes for subjects, timetables, learning objectives and outcomes. A label says: ‘learning happened in bounded slots, assigned to subjects, moved toward outcomes’. Mathematics from 9.00 am to 10.00 am. Science from 10.00 am to 11.00 am. Even art and music get boxes — bounded, assessed, concluded.

Steve: It seems to me, increasingly, that we are only touching the surface of our ever-mounting problems: the roots of our unhappiness lie much deeper. And nothing we are doing in the contemporary world — the prodigious advances in technology, for instance — does anything to alleviate — indeed, it exacerbates — the isolation both existential and immediate that hangs about us like a cloud.

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